


this, & this, & this.

by pre-2018 (fillory), trashprinxe



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2020-04-23 22:06:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19159903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fillory/pseuds/pre-2018, https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashprinxe/pseuds/trashprinxe
Summary: [found written in scrawling cursive on a fresh page of Credence’s journal, accidentally left open on the kitchen table] “…I will never leave Percival. It will be this, always, as long as he will let me.”





	this, & this, & this.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a snippet of what we affectionately refer to as the Country Manor ‘verse, a self-indulgent AU in which Credence and Graves (the real one) survive the events of the first film, heal together, fall in love, and move to the Graves family estate in upstate New York.
> 
> Graves was written by [Romeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashprinxe). Credence was written by [Bri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fillory/pseuds/fillory). Quotes from Madeline Miller’s _The Song of Achilles_.

It is the morning light, soft and warm, that draws Graves reluctantly from his slumber. He rolls over, blearily reaching out to find the other side of the bed empty. Unconcerned, he shoves a hand back through his hair, still mussed with sleep. It’s not unusual for Credence to be up before him. The boy is an early riser, a byproduct of his life in the Church. Graves does not consider himself idle in any sense of the word, but Credence puts him to shame, rising often before the sun to make coffee, or water the flowers, or feed the neighborhood cats. The gardens of the Graves’ upstate manor look better than they have in years, under Credence’s gentle care, and the local fauna have never looked healthier. It warms something within Graves to see Credence like this: at peace. Queenie had been right; a getaway from the city had been exactly what the two of them needed to heal.

As the sun drifts higher, Graves makes his way out of bed, wandering toward the smell of fresh coffee. He half expects to see Credence sitting there at the kitchen table where they spend most of their time. Credence, journaling or drawing, and Graves all too often poring over work (no matter how many times Credence admonishes him to leave it in the city— _“You’re not the ONLY Auror in New York, you know!”_ ). But the boy is nowhere to be seen. Graves pours himself a strong cup into his favorite mug and slowly nurses it as he strolls around to the window. A morning like this feels almost too indulgent, especially after what he went through, but he forces himself to remember that’s exactly _why_ he should let himself savor this.

_(an image: Credence’s serious face, his intense, beautiful eyes. “You deserve good things, Percival. You_ are _good.”)_

Graves almost doesn’t notice the book lying open on the table. When he does, he thinks for a moment that it must be one of his case files judging by the signature blue ink. But upon a second glance he recognizes Credence’s handwriting. It must be a note explaining where the boy had gone— probably he was at the market; they’d spoken the night before about a distinct lack of baked goods in the house. He steps closer, bends over to read. The top of the page sports today’s date, and there is only one line of text.

_“…I will never leave Percival. It will be this, always, as long as he will let me.”_

Something in Graves’ chest hitches; he takes a step back. He knows right away that this was not meant for his eyes. But he cannot _unread_ it. He pictures Credence sitting in the soft sunlight, his newly growing hair a halo of light around him, too overcome to write a proper entry but needing to put to words this feeling. It is more than Graves deserves— more than he ever has, or ever could. He sets down his coffee, closes the book, closes his eyes against the onslaught of emotion. The budding feeling within him is unfamiliar, but not altogether foreign. It has just been _so long…_ he was afraid it had been lost to him. Now he knows the truth, and he opens his eyes with a surety growing inside of him. 

_I will let him. Forever._

* * *

When Credence returns home— _Daily Prophet_ under his arm, the morning’s fresh bread tucked safely in his satchel—he finds his journal sitting open on the kitchen table.

He nearly drops the paper in his surprise; instead, he hurries over. _Is the page still open to…?_ Yes. One of his more embarrassing entries, written in a fit of contentment just before he left:

_…I will never leave Percival. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me._

Not the first such thought he’s written in this journal, but probably the most sentimental.

Credence had awoken this morning to the first touch of sunrise drifting through their window from over the hillside. Percival, soft in sleep, slumbered still next to him, sheets pushed down around his waist. The dawn light caught the silver in his hair. As Credence watched, he let out a soft snore; and all at once Credence was taken over by an immense _fondness_.

He’d gone to the kitchen to start the coffee brewing, and then sat there in the pale morning light trying to figure out how to capture what he was feeling. He hesitated to write it down at first—his happiness seemed too potent, too broad to fit on a single unlined page—but then he remembered his future self. Later, perhaps years down the road, Credence might need this memory.

In the end, he could only manage two lines.

Credence blushes rereading his own words. If this is his reaction, he can’t imagine how Percival might have felt…

Percival who is nowhere in sight.

_Perhaps he didn’t read it,_ Credence thinks to himself, then startles at the twinge of— _disappointment_ he feels? The coffeepot is half empty; Percival was clearly here, though he may not have read the book on the table. Credence has found Percival very careful not to invade his space; it’s all too easy to picture him stepping away as soon as he realized Credence had left his private journal open.

But what if Percival _had_ read it?

Then he would know how Credence feels, the words he finds himself unable to return when Percival murmurs them into his hair or gasps against his collarbone. Credence has been shy, far shyer than Percival deserves. He’s tried to express his feelings in actions—but actions are not always a fair substitute for words, Credence knows, and even Percival Graves must get insecure sometimes.

If he read Credence’s journal, then Percival _knows._

He begins to leave notes around the manor where Percival might find them:

_percival is half my soul, as the poets say_

—hidden under a basket of wildflowers, and

_i feel like i could eat the world raw_

—in the pocket of Percival’s long, black coat, and

_this, & this, & this._

He leaves  _philtatos_  in Percival’s dust-ridden copy of the _Iliad_ , next to his Greek dictionary, where he likely won’t find it for years. He writes a love letter, then five more, and rolls them all up to hide around the rafters of the manor. It stops being about Percival finding them—though he still leaves obvious notes for him to puzzle over—and starts being about expressing his love to the world. Credence has so much to give; he feels like he might float with it sometimes, like the world has cast a permanent _Wingardium Leviosa_ without him knowing.

Years from now, they might go hunting together for love notes. Credence will tell Percival about the rafters, and Percival will laugh and fly him up by the ankles. They’ll do dramatic readings, Credence putting on silly voices until Percival gives in and smiles. Percival will hold him close, and kiss him, and Credence will still have to stop himself from swooning.

For now, he hides his notes. He feeds the neighborhood cats, and reads volume upon volume of ancient Greek poetry.

And the next time Percival tells him he loves him, Credence finds the courage to whisper it back.


End file.
